Chapter XII

Catherine's Case

She lay on her back with her arms crossed behind her head, staring at the ceiling. The couch was roomy and the fabric was cool to the touch. If she grew cold, there was an dog-fur covered afghan across the back she could curl up under. Despite the room's sixty-five degree temperature, she wasn't cold. Despite sleeping only four out of the last forty-eight hours, she was not tired. Despite the Green case being officially closed, she could not get it out of her mind. It was an almost normal Sunday morning for Sara Sidle. That night and Monday night were her usual nights off and as she was, once again, maxed out on overtime; she would be taking her down time in its entirety.

That was, of course, unless an 'All Hands' case came up. Since, they were in the middle of a seemingly endless heatwave, that was always a possibility. The heat always brought out the worst in people, after all. She hoped for a calm couple of days because no matter how heinous the case, she doubted she'd be able to focus all of her concentration on it. The Green case felt unfinished. There was something still nagging her. That something was, of course, the device.

She looked over at her laptop on the coffee table. It was surrounded by the assorted notes and pictures she'd gathered. Technically, what she had were copies as the originals, down to her own notes, were packed away in the evidence locker. She typed or scanned everything onto the hot-rod laptop that Archie and a friend of his had built for her. It was neat, ordered and all the information was at her fingertips. It still didn't make sense. She had typed out, loosely paraphrased anyway, what Professor Blake and Helen had said about the device, but it still didn't tell her why a college student had one inside of her.

A prototype was patented in 1980 by a Mr. William Tucker of Los Angeles, California. Its original purpose was, as originally conjectured, to immediately stop any unwanted sexual penetration. It was never put into mass production or marketed. There are three known physical prototypes in existence. Two of which are in museums: The Los Angeles Museum of Women's History and the Houston Museum of Oddities. The third is part of a private collection held by Amanda Doughtry, the retired head and one of the founding mothers of NOW. While there are assurances that all three holders will cooperate, it seems unlikely that the device taken from Miss Green is one of the three.

Her notes went on, but with little point. As helpful as the two women had been, Sara still knew little about the device. She didn't like leaving lose ends and this was one hell of a lose end. She looked at Riley, who was stretched out on the chair across from her. "You have any ideas?"

The shaggy mutt lolled his tongue at her for a moment then went back to chewing on the rawhide bone between his paws.

Sara sighed, but couldn't quite stop herself from smiling, "Useless."

She thought back over the case, and the last few days. She knew that, tomorrow, Miss Green's body would be released to the girl's parents to be taken home for burial. No one had claimed Finnigan's body and the county would bury him with little ceremony and no memory. Even for a career criminal and rapist, it seemed undeserved. Those thoughts brought her back 'round to his bloody death and the device that caused it. It was like Sofia had said ---

Sofia, Sara shook her head to clear it. Now there was a complication she didn't need: Thinking about the blonde in any other way than Detective First Grade S. Curtis of Las Vegas Homicide. Sofia, Detective Curtis was a colleague. She could even be classified as a "work friend", and that, Sara sternly told herself, was the end of that. It would do her no good to think about the woman's alluring laugh, or her razor sharp brain or the fact that she had all but melted over Riley. It was especially important not to think about the woman's gorgeous blue eyes. Sara was a sucker for blue eyes. "And you know very well what happens when you go down that road, don't you?"

Sara laughed at herself. She was even picking up Sofia's habit of talking to herself. When Sofia did it, it was cute. When she did it, she sounded insane. She plopped one arm over her eyes and groaned. At the rate she was going, she would never get tired and go to sleep.

Sunday rolled into Monday and Monday was slowly melting into Tuesday. Catherine had a theory about Mondays, if the week started with a high profile triple homicide in Seven Hills, a drive-by right off the strip and a casino robbery, the week couldn't get much worse. Of course, this particular theory didn't take into account the heat wave, Ecklie's interference or the fact that Nick's sister just had to go and have a baby. Where was the cosmic justice? Hadn't she earned enough karma to catch a break yet?

Slightly disgruntled, she shuffled through assignment slips. Days had been slammed and Swing Shift had half-assed it through a few minor cases, so not only did her shift have their own cases but spillover cases to deal with too. As it was Sara's night off and Nick had taken off to Texas to meet the newest member of the Stokes brood, she was short handed and Gil had conveniently disappeared off to some severe decomp and insect life case. Usually she wouldn't have envied him, but the quiet of the desert sounded almost appealing tonight… well, minus the bugs anyway. Greg, she decided, could handle the two B&Es, Warrick would take the hit and run, and she would take on the db in the Tropicana parking garage. If anything else rolled in, she would have to call Sara in, and that was a can of worms she didn't really want to open.

Four and a half hours later, on her second scene of the night, Catherine was worried that she might have to swallow her pride and actually call the brunette CSI in. Then again, the day she couldn't handle an open and shut trick-roll was the day she turned in her ID and badge. The Desert Wind Motel was a tacky off-strip motel that boasted one level of rooms that had seen their last remodel around the seventies, ice machines that probably didn't work and color televisions. When a motel advertised the fact that it had a color television in every room, she didn't hold out much hope for clean sheets.

Her crime scene was in room 117, on the backside of the L-shaped building. She made her way under the tape and along the cracked sidewalk that was bordered by a couple of sad shrubs and dust. A uniform stood outside of 117, his face was ashen, but it looked composed.

Catherine paused, "You okay, Officer?"

The young black man nodded then grinned a little, "Better off than my partner, Ma'am."

She followed his eye-line and saw the silhouette of a man bent over almost double, emptying his guts onto the blacktop of the neighboring parking lot. Catherine patted the uniform on the shoulder, "Good man."

Rookies threw up at the first sight of blood, at the first smell of decomp, but though she didn't know the officer's name, she knew his face. He and his partner had been on more than one bloody scene with her. That did not bode well for her. If the scene was too out of control, she would be here well into the morning.

Fortunately, Doc Robbins was already on scene. She pulled protective booties over her shoes and snapped on latex gloves at the door.

"Hey Doc, David out at another scene?"

The ME didn't even look up as he spoke, "He's on his way back, bringing Grissom's decomp in."

Catherine chuckled, "So you got to come out to this four-star room?"

Robbins blew out a sigh, "Could be worse, I could be scooping the poor man off the pavement with Warrick.

Catherine came closer, "Very true, now what do we have?"

Robbins finally looked up, "A very strange coincidence."

Catherine looked down at the dead body, sweeping it from head to toe. "Caucasian, male, eighteen to twenty -"

She stopped between his splayed legs and her words dropped off. "Jesus, what happened to him? It looked like he tried to bop a weed-whacker."

The Doctor looked at her mirthlessly, "You're not far off the mark, Catherine. Two days ago, I would have had no idea what could have done this sort of damage. Now, I think we might have a problem on our hands."

Catherine winged up a light brow, "What do you mean?"

Al Robbins had the man's mutilated penis in his gloved hands, "Sara didn't tell you? One of her victims from the construction site had wounds exactly like this."

While Catherine had glanced at the case file, she hadn't taken time to read it. "So a stiletto blade, maybe, or" She shook her head, "I don't know, what caused it?"

"It's hard to explain, but I can show you when we get this gentleman back to the morgue."

Author's Note: Technical difficulties and busy schedules delayed this chapter a bit. Now, before I forget, someone asked if cheese, a drug that was mentioned a handfull of chapters ago was my own creation or an actual factual drug. It's real, I learned about it at work. Oh so much fun.